The Making of A Hero
by Miranda le Ginger
Summary: Heroes are not born, they are made. What exactly does it take to make a hero? Rhylen Tabris will discover this as she embarks on a quest that takes her beyond the gates of the Denerim alienage. Not all things are black and white...


Disclaimer: I do not own dragon Age, or the fabulous characters a lot of fans have grown to love and adore. I am just taking them out of the box and playing with them. I also do not own the quote or lyric used in the beginning, as well as the beginning of every chapter.

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_Hard times don't create heroes. It is during the hard times when the 'hero' within us is revealed. ~Bob Riley_

"_It's a nice day for a white wedding…" Billy Idol_

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"Wake up, sleepyhead! Hey, come on, you are going to miss your own nuptials!" An agitated, feminine voice right beside the sleeping elf. Rhylen groaned, burrowing her face against the well-worn pillow underneath her head. "Five more minutes Shianni…." The slightly elder of the two rasped sleepily, eyelids drifting shut over piercing aquamarine.

"Ugh! Fine then, have it your way. You leave me no choice then." Shianni swiftly grabbed one end of the pillow, giving a mighty tug. The decrepit little thing shot out from underneath Rhylen's head, causing the elf to let out an undignified squeak, head bouncing off her mattress. "Oof! Okay okay, I'm up! Jeez…." Rhylen blearily opened her eyes, glaring at her unrepentant cousin who stood beside her, a cheeky grin spread out across her pale face.

"Great! Thanks for finally gracing us with your presence, oh honored one." Rhylen scowled, boring a hole into the opposite wall with the intensity of her gaze. "Honored? Huh, I feel far from it." The red-haired elf shook her head exasperatedly at her older cousin, almond-colored eyes narrowing on the beautifully exotic face. "It could be worse, you know. From what I have heard, your groom is supposed to be a dream. The other women are practically shedding jealousy. Elva especially wants a piece of you right now."

Rhylen brushed a strand of hair the color of a baby white dove's plumage out of her eyes with a slim hand, a cocky smirk finally gracing her face. "A piece of me, eh? Did you tell her I am flattered, but it would be unseemly for the bride-to-be to cavort around with another woman? Think of the scandal!" Shianni laughed, punching Rhylen on the shoulder. The white-haired elf gave a mock pout, mimicking a pained expression. "Oh hush, you big baby. We both know that did not hurt."

Shianni's grin slowly simmered down, a thoughtful expression on her face. "But, seriously; why are you not happy about today? I mean, I know arranged marriages are not exactly ideal….but it is tradition. And your dad found a good match." Rhylen sobered up, all playfulness gone from her face and eyes. She dare not even glance at her cousin, not when she was feeling so vulnerable.

"I know it is tradition, and I also know my father would have settled for nothing but the best for me. I have no doubt this…Nelaros…is a decent enough guy, but I just…I do not want to get married. Not yet anyway, and not to a man I have never before met or really even heard of. It…it just is not fair, when those humans can go out and marry whomever they choose."

"Rhylen…we are not humans. We are _elves_. Regardless of what we want or think, humans will always think of us as servants capable of nothing more than cleaning and using however they wish. I hate it too, believe me. But, in this one instance, we must do what is right for us, and our people. Just give this guy a chance. Who knows, you might be pleasantly surprised."

Rhylen sighed, finally looking into the expressive brown eyes of her cousin. Shianni was right, of course. She usually was. The fiery elf had a personality to matching the burning red of her hair, and she was never one to mince words or beat around the bush. She hated humans and the lot thrown reluctantly to the elves, but even she would not rebel against tradition. It was the one thing the elven race had that was purely their own.

"We shall see. And what of Soris? Is he also preparing for the wedding later?" A twinkle shined in Shianni's eyes as she fought a smirk. "Oh yes, he is just anxiously waiting the moment he meets his bride for the first time. Last I saw, he was pacing the ground and mumbling words to himself. Apparently, the woman he is betrothed to is rather…plain."

A stark white eyebrow jutted skyward, perfectly poised and elongated. "Really? He is worried at the fact his bride is average instead of the actual marriage itself?" Red strands bounced as Shianni shrugged. "I think it is more to it than that…but, yes, that seemed to be the reason why, at least earlier. He is as unwilling as you to wed. Unfortunately for Soris, he does not have a wonderful cousin at his disposal to talk sense into him."

Rhylen rolled her eyes, perching on one hand as her lean body sprawled out on top of the moth-eaten covers strewn about her bed. "You know, he _is _your cousin as well. You could have imparted your "wisdom" onto him this morning instead of me."

Shianni clasped her lithe hands behind her back, face formed into the best faux innocence Rhylen had ever seen, even in the elven children who pretty much coined the expression. "But Rhylen, my unerring wisdom does not just come easily. Only a select few can bear witness to it. Consider yourself fortunate indeed that I chose you instead of Soris. You…should be honored."

"The only thing I feel right now is irritation, hunger, and a hint of nausea at the mere thought of today." Shianni shrugged, arms falling at her sides. "Well, I cannot help you out there, Rhylen. Okay, enough procrastinating; your father wants to see you, and then you need to go talk with Soris. He needs some reassurance now as well, and you are the only person who can ever talk sense into him. Actually…that is a scary thought, considering you are the one with cold feet. Perhaps you should not talk to him after all; we may have a runaway bride AND groom."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Shi…I appreciate it ever so much." The other elf gave a mock bow, her smirk ever present on her delicate features. "Imparting wisdom, remember? It's a skill. Now, go see Cyrion. I'm sure he is close to a fit right about now."

Rhylen slowly stood up, stretching her shoulders until an audible crack resounded around the small hovel. A satisfied groan gently fell from pale lips as a look of bliss took over her features. Shianni screwed her face up in disgust. "Yeah, maybe you should keep that to yourself around Nelaros. You might just scare him off before even getting to the altar."

The faded red of Rhylen's intricate tattoo, mirrored after the Dalish, spread over lightly tanned skin. Cyrion and most of the other alienage elves had disapproved the unwanted addition to an otherwise gorgeous face, but Rhylen had been adamant. She had been fascinated for the lost race of her people ever since a young age, and received the tattoo when she became of age, two slight years ago. It was her way to rebel, to stick it to the shems and those elves that looked down upon their brethren for being free.

"Promises, promises. Where exactly is my father?" The small wooden door leading into the house opened with a creak, Cyrion Tabris's silhouette painting the doorway. The tall, older elf stood with a slight stoop, a telling sign of his age aside from his graying hair and a few wrinkles dotting his wizened face.

"Speak of the man and he shall appear! There is your father, my dear Rhylen. You're welcome." Rhylen glared pointedly at the young woman; laughing, the red head waved the look off. "Alright, I will leave you two to your father/daughter talk. Meet me after you grab Soris, okay? See you soon cousin!" The elf flitted out of the room, pausing in the doorway to shoot a last mischievous look at Rhylen before leaving.

Cyrion shook his head fondly at the young woman. Shianni was a veritable spitfire, a lot like his daughter in fact. But the difference between the two girls was substantial. Shianni was like a small fire, burning brightly and burning anyone foolish enough to mess with it. But, someone with a firm and skilled hand could tame that fire, or put it out. Rhylen, on the other hand…she took after her mother. _Adaia_…mother and daughter were like infernos, sweeping any and everybody away in their wake. Nobody could douse the flames, no matter the approach.

Soft green orbs gently sweeped over the sheepish form of his only daughter. Though she and Adaia shared no physical resemblance except for the proud line of Rhylen's jaw, their personalities were near identical. Rhylen stood tall and proud, holding herself like a noble far above her own station in life. Her white hair was incredibly rare for an elf, especially for one so very young; not yet twenty-one years. Rhylen kept it short, framing her face in slightly tousled waves until it tapered off to her jaw. One single braid on the right side of her head served as the only adornment; after his wife had passed, Rhylen had taken to the style. It was the only thing left of her mother, mannerism or not, that she still possessed.

Her eyes…they were also unusual. Cyrion himself had light green eyes and Adaia had possessed orbs of caramel, smooth and golden. Rhylen on the other hand had these aquamarine/teal orbs that glowed in sun or dark. Paired with her hair color and the Dalish tattoo she had been determined to get, Rhylen stood out like a sore thumb. Indeed, Cyrion had noticed many of the human guards who passed through staring at her unabashedly, dark intentions swirling in their eyes.

"Uhh, Father? Are you…alright?" Rhylen's voice, softly spoken, broke the old man from his reverie. His daughter looked at him in concern, staring at his fists. Looking down, Cyrion was surprised to see his hands clenched tightly in fists. He watched in fascination as his skin rippled; forcing himself to relax, he lifted his head up and met the curious eyes of his daughter.

"How are you this morning, Rhylen?" The young woman pondered the words, so innocent in the query and yet loaded with so much more. Lightly running a hand through her snowy strands, a nervous habit she had yet to break, the elf considered the question and what was appropriate to say to her father. "I-I am not quite sure what I am feeling, father. Nerves, indecision…sadness, I suppose."

Cyrion started at the last whispered word, peering intently at his daughter. Her eyes kept darting around the room, refusing to meet his gaze. Heart sinking slightly, he sighed heavily. "Those are all common feelings, Rhylen. I myself felt them when your mother and I were wed. Everyone goes through them. But, I have a feeling you are feeling sad for more than you are letting on. What is really troubling you?"

"I-I do not want to be wed, father. I am young, too young to think about fastening myself to a chain for the rest of my life. And it is not just that. If I truly loved Nelaros, then age would not matter…but, I do not even know him! I do not know what he looks like, what he smells like. Is-is he kind, or smart? Does he want kids, not out of-of obligation or need, but actually _want_ them? Is love something he cares about or that he will force himself to feel? Will he treat with right? I just do not know!"

Cyrion stood, stunned as he watched Rhylen wring her hair in frustration, voice steadily growing in volume as her hidden feelings finally burst to the surface. The man felt his years piling on him, feeling every bit as old as he was. Sighing again, Cyrion crossed the distance to his daughter, gently taking her into his arms. He felt her clinging to him, trying to hold herself afloat.

Clearing his throat, Cyrion tried to ease his daughter's worries. "Rhylen…your mother and I…we have always wanted what was best for you. You have been the pride and joy of our existence since you were born. I have watched you grow up from a young girl into this-this gorgeous young woman before me. Adaia always said you were meant for greatness beyond these walls that bind you, and I agree. You are worth so much more than anything in the world, Rhylen. If your mother and I could have given you castles and empires and a choice in husband…a _choice_…we would have done so in a heartbeat."

He paused, clutching her tighter and she buried her head in his chest. "I looked and looked to find you a man worthy to hold you, to put a ring on your finger. I would not settle for anything less than the absolute best for my little flower. You are just like Adaia was, so…full of life and vigor and passion. Only a special man could walk beside you and not get encompassed. It…it has been hard, without your mother beside me to help. But I finally found someone I can see your equal, the only one that impressed me enough to even try."

Cyrion felt Rhylen's arms tighten around his midsection, burrowing her face even deeper against the scratchy cotton of the shirt. "Nelaros is a good man, Rhylen. He was bred in Highever, in an alienage superior to our own. He is kind and incredibly intelligent. He likes poetry, and recites poems. He is also well-read, and he can write. But, the attribute I liked most of all…the one that sold me on him and him alone…was the fact that he promised to love you, to care for you. I know you never wanted to be forced into an arranged marriage and, despite tradition, I would never make you. But Nelaros is the best man I can give to you. He is the one I can turn you over to and the one I trust to take care of you when I am long gone."

Rhylen lifted her face up, unshed tears swimming in her eyes. They looked almost crystalline, beautiful and fragile. "You-you really think I will like him, then? That I will grow to love him?" Cyrion mulled over the words, not willing to lie to her face. "I do not have the answer, flower. I cannot say what you do or will feel, and you cannot make yourself love someone. I do think that you will grow to like him, and that maybe someday that like will transform to love. After all, flowers take some time to cultivate but, when it is time, it will surely blossom. I have already made the arrangements with Nelaros's family and paid the dowry. Everything is set, and I can finally stay at ease knowing you will be secure."

Rhylen nodded, loosening her hold on her father. Brushing her hair back and closing her eyes, she took a long, fortifying breath. When she opened them again, aquamarine had hardened with determination. "I will marry him, Father. But, I will not be doing it for tradition, or because humans have forced us into these practices. I will be doing it for _you_."

She walked past Cyrion, head held high. Her strides were long and purposeful, until she stopped suddenly at the door. "I am going to go and meet Soris and Shianni; she told me that we will be meeting our others soon. I will see you later, as I dress for the wedding." Cyrion nodded, feeling pride for his daughter swell in his breast. He and Adaia had done good. "I will lay your dress out, flower. I hope you like Nelaros. Send my congratulations and regards to Soris, if you will." Rhylen acknowledged the remark, before turning the knob and walking out of the house.

Cyrion bowed his head once she had left, leaden limbs dragging him down as he moved to the chest lying against the corner of his home. Slowly opening the trunk, he eyed the simple dress folded up and sat on the very top. Shaking, he grasped the cloth, sliding fingers and feeling every stitch lovingly sewn into it by an elf seamstress who lived a couple of houses down. It had been a wedding gift from her to Rhylen.

The elder Tabris bent his head forward, forehead touching the cool cloth. Tears splashed unbidden from his eyes, sliding down wise cheeks before hitting the floor. Cyrion stared through the water obscuring his vision, eyeing the darkened splotches dotting the wood. Today was supposed to be a momentous occasion, one good event amidst the monotony and terror of the remaining days. Why then did he feel as if his very heart was breaking?

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